In the Eye of the Beholder
by DeceasedSoul
Summary: Lavender Brown is no longer beautiful, and she can't look her friends in the eye anymore. Can two people change that perception, and begin the slow process of healing? Rare-pair


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Name: In the Eye of the Beholder

Rating: T for sexuality (and a bit of violence)

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairings: Het, some femmeslash (non graphic)

Summary: Lavender Brown is no longer beautiful, and she can't look her friends in the eye anymore. Can two people change that perception, and begin the slow process of healing? Rare-pair

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Lavender Brown doesn't move. She lies there staring at the blank white ceiling of the Hogwarts infirmary, lies there with her eyes blank and dry, swimming in a sea of pain. She can't move. If she moves then her scars rip open, and stain the cool, clean sheets with infected blood that stains in an instant, and has a peculiar smell to it. There are three long claw marks down her stomach, one of them tracing between her breasts, as though it has been drawn by a long finger tracing an ardent caress. Her legs are marked in the same fashion, across her thighs marring the smooth white flesh. They hadn't let her see her face, but she suspected the worst from the blinding fire that came if she coughed, or moved her features. They forced a potion down her throat every hour, designed to alleviate the pain, but she can't find the words to tell them that it doesn't work. That the pain hides beneath the surface, like a sinuous snake that can infiltrate itself into every tangled thread of her thoughts, and causes her to hallucinate until she can't tell the difference between reality and her dreams.

Harry comes and hovers awkwardly. Whispers about how brave she was. She used to have a crush on him- the hero bent on saving the world, but now he looks tired and old, and the spark that made him real seems to have cooled, until he is only a pale shadow of what he once was. He runs his fingers through his hair, but it's no longer the care-free gesture of the boy she had once known.

Ron stops by for a moment, and murmurs about being sorry, how he should have been there. She can't find the words to absolve him of the sin-that-was-not-a-sin. She can't find words at all, for the boy she had once kissed, hugged, told her secrets to, and started falling in love with until she realised what a stupid thing that would be to do.

Hermione sits beside her, and that is worst of all. Because Hermione cries. She thinks Lavender is asleep, and even so she is discreet, she hides her sobs, and the only sound that reveals what she is doing is the ragged breaths, and occasional sniff. Lavender knows from ward-gossip that Hermione hasn't cried yet. That after the first emotion filled moments of relief, she has been hard and set and cold. She hasn't broken down in anyone's arms, not even Harry and Ron's, but presented a white face to the world. But from where Lavender has risked turning her head a very little to the side, she can see the shaking of her shoulders, the white streaks in brown bushy hair, the worn robes. She still does not speak.

Three weeks pass, and the worst is over. The wounds eventually rid themselves of all the vile pus that werewolf scratches secrete, and began to heal normally. The pain is still there, but it is in the background, and Lavender can breathe without the world burning white fire. People come to visit her- Parvati, Dean, Seamus, the Trio (usually together, Hermione still like a ghost, Harry like a dead man and Ron with guilt in his eyes,) but as time went by and she didn't speak, even though visits began to tail off. One day she manages to shower, to dress herself, and raises her wand to do the charms she has done every day for the past five years, that she knows as well as Harry knows Experillaimus, or Ginny knows the Bat Bogey Hex, the simple hair and makeup spells that make up such a large part of who she was.

With a whispered charm, a mirror appears in her hand, and she raises it with hands that shake uncontrollably. She is a Gryffindor, she faced down a Death-eater. She can deal with looking at some scars. In a vain attempt to make herself look better, she casts the charms before she looks. There is a tinkle of broken glass as she drops the mirror, and her legs fold from underneath her.

_Seven years bad luck_, part of her mind numbly told her.

She is horrific. One eye is milky white (the side effect of the anti-venom they forced into her, when they realised that though she would not become a werewolf, she had more than werewolf poison coursing through her blood, that Fenrir Greyback left nothing to chance.) She can see through it, but there is no longer a pupil, no longer an iris, just a white orb, that reminds her strangely of Mad-eye Moody. The scars take the form (like those on her stomach) of a hand clawing down her face. One of the thin raised scars traces across her mouth, and she follows it numbly with her fingers. She is missing two fingers on her left hand. She tosses back her head, and howls the thin reedy cry of an animal in pain.

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There is nobody that she can talk to about this. Hermione came quietly to her, mentioned a safe-house of healing and rest that she was planning, asked if she wanted to a place. Lavender is tempted. She can't go back to her family like this, Hogwarts is not a home, and who does she know who will not pity her? But then blood rushes to her face, and she licks teeth that are slightly too sharp and wonders whether there would be no pity. She refuses.

And then they are all gone. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Seamus, Dean, Ginny, George. Even Parvati kissed her on the cheek (with only the briefest hesitation- though enough to crucify Lavender) and left for her family. Lavender stayed alone, alone with the portraits and the few teachers who had volunteered to stay. Every few days, a stilted, polite little letter came from Hermione. It always told her there was a place open for her. Eventually she stopped opening them. She didn't need anyone's pity.

Lavender was ugly now, she told herself, and she tried to accept it. She no longer had white soft skin, that folded into dimples when she smiled. Her hair was not the soft mass of lustrous curls that it had been, when she brushed it every day and always made sure to condition it, her eyes were not the same blue they had once been- one of them white, the other faded and dull against the harsh vision of her face. Her body was scarred, and she told herself quietly, so was her soul. Every shred of innocence she'd had in her, had been ripped out with those gleaming ivory teeth, and the crazed panting over her body that reminded her only of a rabid dog.

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Bill Weasley had come to talk to her. She remembered him from the Triwizard Tournament, the tall, dashing, good-looking wizard who had winked at her playfully. She'd pined for months, hugging her pillow in the ecstasy of a first crush. Now he was like her. The scarring was worse, more a mass, than the lines she had running over her flesh, but he carried it off with a grim self confidence and posture. He sat beside her, and held her hand. He didn't tell her it would be okay, because they both knew it wouldn't. Other scars would fade over time, would vanish with the right potion, but werewolf poison was ongoing. She still hadn't cried, but she told him numbly about how ugly she was. She didn't need to say it, they could both see it, but she needed to talk. He listened quietly, and squeezed her fingers, and she wished with a small bitter smile that he wasn't married.

Fleur appeared next. Lavender remembered her from the Tri-wizard Tournament and was intrigued. She was breath-takingly gorgeous, tall, silvery haired, and willowy, everything that Lavender had tried to be before this, and she was married to a man the utter opposite. She sat down with Lavender, and like her husband had done, took her hand. Lavender had the sudden most absurd idea that Fleur was about to impart beauty tips, how to make the most of what she had left. So when warm lips covered her own, and her face felt the gentle touch of soft hands her mind went blank. Fleur, husband of Bill Weasley was kissing her, slowly and tenderly, and not seeming to care that Lavender was not kissing back.

Lavender stilled. I'm not gay, she told herself. I like boys, always have done. But a tiny part of her mind whispered quietly. What boy will touch you now? Who will touch with gentleness and warmth and tenderness, and make you feel as though you are beautiful? Take this. Take it even if it is pity, even if it is some sick kink that Beauxbatons students indulge in, the thrill of intimacy with someone so hideously scarred. Take it because you might never feel this again.

As though Fleur could read her mind, she stopped the kiss, and cupped Lavender's face with her hands. "This eez not pity," she whispered, and kissed one cheek. "This eez not a lie or a joke." She kissed the other. "I want to make you feel beautiful again." A kiss was brushed onto her lips. "I talked about this with Bill, and we agreed that I should be the one to show you that life is not over, that you can be touched and be wanted."

Drawing in a shuddering breath, Lavender relaxed. Just tonight she told herself. Tonight she would accept this gift. Fleur felt the acquiescence, and their kiss was renewed. Slowly Fleur traced her fingers across every scar, across Lavender's thigh under the long white nightgown, and the welts on her stomach. Like a ghost, her touch wavered between them, and Lavender felt every nerve in her body tense. With a final acceptance she gathered Fleur closer towards her, in an embrace, and reached out to touch.

Afterwards she cried, and Fleur's long fingers stroked her hair back from her face, and she was held with agonizing acceptance. Before dawn came, Fleur was gone. Lavender breathed in and out, and experimentally prodded her memory of last night. No pain, and she smiled for the first time in a long time. When the owl came from Hermione, Lavender scrawled on the back of it, and sent it back. "_Yes please."_

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Review please. CC craved for better story writing


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